


Engineering

by threewalls



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Strap-Ons, Technological Kink, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <cite>She has not done this, the straps, the polymers, the engineering.</cite>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Engineering

**Author's Note:**

> For kink_bingo: pegging/strapons.

"How does it feel?" 

Balthier's mouth drops to her jaw, her neck before Fran can answer with more than a moan. She cannot see his face, but her palms can feel the muscles of his shoulders loosening, and she enjoys the rougher pull of his mouth on her skin. As his mouth had begun on hers, his hands had began on her lower back, roving down to follow the lines of leather dividing her rear, then up to her hip, inevitably following the path of the leather to stroke along the attached shaft. His other hand cups her breast, his mouth dropping to the nipple. His hands, his lips, find the same rhythm, and as he strokes it, the wide flat base of the phallus presses against her.

"It's good," Fran answers, the hume way, with words.

The phallus is black, moulded from the finest Rozarrian organic polymers. Balthier believes in paying for quality, for comfort. He likes buying her gifts. Sometimes, male and female, those Fran has fucked with have assumed from her stature, from her bow or from her rare but bitter tongue, that she possesses such an organ, but none have bought her one before. 

The harness is black leather with dull metal buckles. The colour would have matched her armour, if Fran were wearing anything but the harness, but this shape, this length in his hand, is hume not viera. (It evokes memories in Fran of a very familiar shape. Narcissist, she thinks, and fondly.) Viera, too, split their society between those that fought and those that gathered, but that is a difference of lineage, one marked on their bodies with more subtlety than this. Fran thinks that if she had met more female humes interested in such equipment, she might not have so strong a preference for the difference of their males.

Balthier looks up at her, waiting, and Fran leans her weight against him. She has not done this, the straps, the polymers, the engineering. Fran has fucked with many in her years, but she has had few lovers. Fucking is casual. Fucking is rarely this creative (Balthier is rarely _not_ creative). And so, she has not done this, not this side of the act.

Balthier's hand strokes down the length of her arm, braceleting her wrist and leading her to the bed. He kneels between her widespread knees, watching her watching him curl his tongue to lave the shaft, to lick, to kiss, to suck. Balthier has ever loved an audience.

She has been envious of the flexibility of Balthier's hume mouth, its range and supple stretch. Fran can lick, but cannot swallow; her jaw is too tight. Balthier's lips are pressed against his teeth, though her phallus is polymer, not flesh. And yet, as she watches him, it is as if she can feel the wet heat of his mouth, the softness there.

Fran's hips shift, slow thrusts sliding on Balthier's lips. Her phallus shines with wet. His mouth is wet, her lips are dry, and Fran is slick between her thighs, one hand to brace herself on the bed, one petting through the short hairs on the back of his head. He does not finger her. She is empty. Balthier's mouth is so full. 

There is pleasure in wishing him the pleasures she knows intimately. She cannot see his cock, but he smells heavy and hard, and his eyes do not leave hers. There is a throbbing emptiness within her that envies him, but there are also sharper pleasures that are all her own, strange and unexpected, her hips grinding up against flexibility of the polymer in Balthier's unyielding grip. His other hand encircles the phallus where it meets her body, a fist for her to thrust into. There is sweat behind her knees and beneath her breasts.

Fran digs her nails into the sheets and into the carpet, and whines low in her throat. 

Balthier's answer is sounds that are not words for his mouth is still full of her, a promise, a tease, sounds she can feel with her flesh. 

"The polymer conducts vibration well," Fran says, panting. 

Balthier's lips slip back to encircle merely the crown of the phallus, the corners of his mouth tipping to a smirk that the stretch of his lips cannot conceal.

"But you knew that," Fran accuses.

He takes her back with one smooth swallow that makes her breath catch and her thighs tense. His hand on her phallus has found a rhythm that her body knows, and his voice has found a song, tones rising and falling with the rhythm of his hand. If he did not grip her thigh and her cock, she would thrust to choke him.

There is pleasure in watching Balthier be so very pleased with himself, and a toy he has bought her, and the toy may be unfamiliar, but that pleasure is not. His eyes are watering as he watches her watching him, as he watches her fall apart.

Balthier straddles her body while her lungs are still racing and her heartbeat is louder in her ears than the many, varied noises of the Balfonheim inn and the street beyond. 

"All the wonders of modern technology, Fran," he says, slicking the phallus as it sticks upright, pointing eagerly at the point where his legs join. She is tender beneath the toy, but no less eager. "You don't need a rest before Round 2."


End file.
